If an aviator has leave for two or three days in summer he starts in the late afternoon, flashing over that streak of Channel in half an hour, and may be at home for dinner without getting any dust on his clothes or having to bother with military red tape at steamer gangways or customs houses.

The airmen are a type which one associates with certain marked characteristics.  No nervous man is wanted, and it is time for an aviator to take a rest at the first sign of nerves.  They seem rather shy, men given to observation rather than to talking; accustomed to using their eyes and hands.  It is difficult to realize that some quiet, young fellow who is pointed out has had so many hairbreadth escapes.  What tales, worthy of Arabian Nights’ heroes who are borne away-on magic carpets, they bring home, relating them as matter-of-factly as if they had broken a shoelace.

Up in their seat, a whir of the motor, and they are off on another adventure.  They have all the spirit of corps of the oldest regiments, and, besides, a spirit peculiar to the newest branch in the service of war.  Anonymity is absolute.  Everything is done by the corps for the corps.  Possibly because it is so young, because it started with chosen men, the British Aviation Corps is unsurpassed; but partly it is because of the British temperament, with that combination of coolness and innate love of risk which the British manner sometimes belies.  Something of the old spirit of knighthood characterizes air service.  It is individual work; its numbers are relatively few.

Some mornings ago I saw several young soldiers with notebooks going about our village street.  They were from the cadet school where privates, from the trenches, take a course and return with chocolate drops on their, sleeve-bands as commissioned officers.  This was a course in billeting.  For ours is not an army in tents, but one living in French houses and barns.  The pupils were learning how to carry out this delicate task; for delicate it is.  A stranger speaking another language becomes the guest of the host for whom he is fighting.  Mr. Atkins receives only shelter; he supplies his own meals.  His excess of marmalade one sees yellowing the cheeks of the children in the family where he is at home.  Madame objects only to his efforts to cook in her kitchen; woman-like, she would rather handle the pots and pans herself.

Tommy is thoroughly instructed in his duty as guest and under a discipline that is merciless so far as conduct toward the population goes; so the two get on better than French and English military authorities feared that they might.  Time has taught them to understand each other and to see that difference in race does not mean absence of human qualities in common, though differently expressed.  Many armies I have seen, but never one better behaved than the British army in France and Flanders in its respect for property and the rights of the population.